Good Yank
by Fyrearth
Summary: Lady Liberty verse. Alfred is just settling down for the night in WWII North Africa when he gets a surprise.


Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or its characters. Only Evelyn is mine.

Alfred lay back on his bunk cushioning his head with one arm. The heat of North Africa had faded with the onset of night and now it was almost cold. The American gazed up at the stars—so bright and incredibly clear like he hadn't seen since his Wild West days—and he sighed in nostalgia. He missed those days almost. He had so much freedom then and his people were happy spreading across the continent under Manifest Destiny. He had explored the land with them riding the cattle drives in the southwest and mining gold in Nevada and California.

Now he was in a Second World War (wasn't the last one supposed to be the War to End All Wars?) in Tunisia of all places. America grumbled unhappily to himself. _He_ had wanted to invade France directly and take out Germany, but England had argued against it.

Well, technically, he had wanted to go straight to Japan and pay Kiku back for Pearl Harbor, but he had promised to help England and his bosses to defeat Germany first.

_He had met Arthur outside the command tent after the meeting with their Generals to discuss the plan._

"_Artie, damn it, listen to me! We have to free France. Who cares about Italy? Germany's the one we have to worry about and he's in France!" Alfred waved his hand toward the distant French shore._

_Arthur turned to face his ex-colony. His usually bright emerald irises were dulled from pain accentuated by the extremely noticeable bags under his eyes. The island nation's shaggy blonde hair was even messier than usual though there were signs he had tried to tame it to be presentable for the meeting; his uniform was also slightly rumpled hanging off of him loosely though he tried to hide it. The nation—the man—was tired. Alfred didn't think he looked this bad during World War I, but England, especially London, had been hit hard during the Blitz and was still recovering. It didn't help Germany was still bombing the English capitol at intervals._

"_I've told you before America," the English nation replied exasperated using the other's nation name to convey the seriousness of the situation. _

_Their relationship had improved since the American Revolution aided by the alliance during the previous World War, but the Englishman still kept the younger at arm's reach. He had to make his ex-colony understand that they had to put personal feelings aside. Just because they looked human didn't mean they could give in to human emotion. They were nations first; their people and their nation is what matters._

"_France is too well fortified to attack," England continued. "Italy is weaker. If we take Italy it will give us a back door into the rest of Europe, a launching point for an invasion, but first we have to take care of the forces here in North Africa." Then he added bitingly, "Perhaps if you had joined earlier we'd be farther along now." Arthur regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Alfred recoiled as if he had been physically slapped; he ducked his head, baby blues shining with unshed tears._

"_You know I wanted to come sooner. My people wouldn't let me."_

_Guilt pooled in Arthur's stomach. Even after all these years, he still couldn't stand to see that expression on the boy's face. It wasn't right; it made him look too old, too sad—his boy was supposed to be always happy, always smiling._

"_I know, Alfred, I know. Please forgive me, I'm just tired..."_

Alfred had forgiven him if only because he couldn't stand to see his former guardian so ragged. The American nation readjusted his position. His "bunk" was actually just a blanket spread out on the ground—not the most comfortable of places, but he had slept in worst spots. He began to drift off to sleep lulled by the soft voices heard around the camp.

The next thing he knew cold steel was pressed against his throat and a hand was covering his mouth to muffle any screams. Alfred let instinct take over. He grasped the wrist connected to the hand holding the knife using his strength (only a percentage though, have to be careful around humans), he threw the stranger's arm away from him removing the danger to his jugular.

The stranger chuckled, patted the shoulder of the still prone American and whispered, "Good Yank." Then he slinked away leaving Alfred gaping.

America shook his head to clear it, grumbling. Damn Ghoums enjoyed messing with his people too much.

Evelyn shifted in her sleep, mumbling incoherently. Her dreams had been getting worse lately, increasingly more vivid, a participant and an observer at the same time. It was a strange sensation that she had tried and failed to explain.

Arthur sipped at his tea standing in the doorway to his living room. It never failed. The American girl would always fall asleep on his couch—usually reading a book—even though she would wake up with a crick in her neck and complaining about the lumpy cushions. This time she had been reading a history text concentrated on World War II.

Deciding it was time to wake her, the Englishman set his tea safely to the side and went to her side. He placed a hand on her shoulder.

Evelyn's eyes snapped open. She grabbed his arm and twisted. Arthur's eyes widened as his feet left the ground; his world turned upside down and he found himself staring at the ceiling lying on the hardwood floor.

The American peeked over the back of the couch rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Her mouth formed a surprised 'o' when she discovered the Brit. Arthur rolled over onto his stomach propping himself up on his elbows shooting her an annoyed, exasperated glare. Evelyn shrank back out of sight fearing the elder's ire.

Arthur got to his feet, his spine complaining from the rough treatment, and returned to the other side of the couch retrieving his tea. He sat in his armchair eyes meeting the girl's across from him, asking without words.

"Ghoums," Evelyn answered picking up the book from where it had fallen on the floor.

He nodded remembering how those particular soldiers operated. Looking at his nearly empty cup, he said, "Why don't I get us some more tea?"

A/N: So, I'm taking a WWII history class and when my teacher told us about Ghoums I laughed so hard imagining the poor American soldiers' reactions and couldn't help Hetalia-fying it.

Historical Note: Ghoums—Algerian French colonial soldiers specializing in infiltration. They would sneak into the German camp at night feeling the outline of the helmets to identify the Allied and Axis soldiers. The Germans would set up their foxholes so one would be awake on watch and one asleep. The Ghoums would cut the throat of the one awake leaving the sleeping soldier alone. Talk about a wake-up call! The Ghoums would also go to the American lines and do what I wrote above. By the way, the guy that wakes up Alfred is not a nation (i.e. not Algeria) in case that wasn't clear.

Reviews are loved as always.

P.S. I'm thinking of doing a series of one-shots revolving around Evelyn's dreams—the ones that don't fit into the story. I have some ideas, but I don't know if you guys are interested. I would post them in between updates of the regular story and that way I wouldn't feel so bad about making y'all wait so long. The only problem would be they would be unbeta'd. They would also be posted under this title to keep them all together.

End of epically long author's note. Until next time!


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